


In Which Tom Riddle Can't Stop Underestimating House-Elves

by asterismal (asterisms)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Auror Tom Riddle, M/M, Thief Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 16:02:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20392378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asterisms/pseuds/asterismal
Summary: “I do find it strange, however,” Riddle says, “that you’re so offended on Hepzibah’s behalf. It’s not every day that you come across a common thief with such lofty morals.”“I- What?” Harry widens his eyes, making himself look appropriately appalled at the suggestion. “A thief? What do you mean?”“Do cut the pretense, Harry,” Riddle says, and Harry hates the way he shivers when the other man says his name as his hand curls just a bit lower on his back, just shy of inappropriate. “We both know what you are.”Or: Harry is a thief with morals and Tom is a terrible person





	In Which Tom Riddle Can't Stop Underestimating House-Elves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trashgoblinwizardparty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashgoblinwizardparty/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [trashgoblinwizardparty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashgoblinwizardparty/pseuds/trashgoblinwizardparty) in the [TomarryFlashExchanges](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/TomarryFlashExchanges) collection. 

> **Prompt:**
> 
> exactly what the title says...tom is an auror but still Terrible while harry is just trying to be robin hood.
> 
> a dangerous and sexual tension-fueled game of cat and mouse ensues.
> 
> could actually be a muggle au, even?
> 
> Writing this fic felt like the emotional equivalent of being stuffed into the trunk of a car and being taken on an impromptu, involuntary road trip across the continental united states (it was supposed to be so much shorter!!!), and at this point i can’t even tell if i like it or not, so here's hoping it’s good enough lol
> 
> Also if you spot any errors pls feel free to let me know and i'll fix them

Harry hears about Tom Riddle long before he ever meets him.

According to Ms. Hepzibah Smith, who Harry has the displeasure of meeting one night at a Ministry gala, Tom Riddle is the example by which all men should live their lives. A rising star among the aurors, he never turns away a person in need, and none are on his level when it comes to skill with a wand. His handsome face and silver tongue, which she extols with a giggle as her latest glass of wine kicks in, are perhaps even more noteworthy.

Considering Hepzibah Smith is exactly the sort of person Harry dislikes, with her tendency to hoard stolen treasures and mistreat house-elves, all with a thinly veiled air of superiority, he takes this with a grain of salt. 

Which is why he isn’t surprised when, only a few hours later, he meets someone who has something entirely different to say on the subject.

“He’s a nasty sort,” Val, a witch he runs into in Knockturn with deep scratches down her left arm, tells him, “He used to work with Borgin, but now that he’s made his money, he’s spending all his time with those rich, Ministry fucks.”

“Interesting.” Harry touches his wand to the deepest of the scratches, and Val sighs as healing magic knits the skin back together. “Have you ever met him?”

“Nah, but I saw him interrogate a friend of mine once.”

“About what?” Harry asks as he tucks his wand away.

Val eyes him suspiciously, then seems to decide he can be trusted. With this, at least.

“Some trinket he sold a couple months back,” she says with a shrug, “It was some fancy shit, I guess, but my friend didn’t know it at the time.” She snorts. “Would have gotten a better price for it if he had.”

Harry grins. 

“Isn’t that just the worst?” he says.

Val looks surprised. Then she grins back at him. 

Harry doesn’t officially meet Tom Riddle for just over a year.

Unofficially? That comes sooner. 

“I hate polyjuice.”

Hermione was kind enough to help them brew a batch in between her more above-board projects, but as he stares down at the cup of steaming, pus-yellow potion, he can’t find it within himself to thank her for it.

“Suck it up, buttercup,” Val tells him with a mean smile, “If this fails because of your delicate stomach, I’ll never forgive you.”

Harry glares, but he drinks the potion anyway, fighting not to gag at the awful taste. Val is predictably unsympathetic, shoving a bundle of clothing into his arms and telling him to go change.

Unlike Harry, Val doesn’t need any disguises tonight. 

While Harry’s job is to sneak into the empty Carrow townhouse in disguise, just in case anyone catches sight of him as he breaks through the outer wardline, Val will be working the premiere of a new opera to keep an eye on the family. With so many important people about, no one will pay her any attention. The Carrow family isn’t usually the type to go to such high society functions, but apparently they were personally invited to accompany Tom Riddle after they did him a favor.

What that favor was, no one knows. 

And anyone who has any knowledge of the Carrow family’s history knows better than to ask. 

Finally, the time comes to head out, and after wishing Val luck, Harry apparates away.

Getting past the wards is simple enough, but the real challenge comes when he gets inside. The opera is two and a half hours long, and given that the Carrows will no doubt feel uncomfortable there accompanied by so much wealth, amongst which they were never truly welcome for all that their blood was just as pure as the rest, they probably won’t stay long after to socialize. Which means he only has two and a half hours to find the right room, get rid of any defenses, and get back out without tripping any alarms. 

However, for all that the time constraint is an unfortunate annoyance, it isn’t until he slips through a heavily warded passage behind a curtain charmed to be unnoticeable that he thinks he may have made a mistake in coming here tonight. 

Instead of finding the artifact he expects, which has been the family’s claim to fame for nearly three generations now, he finds himself in what appears to be a study. At first glance, there’s nothing of value here.

Upon further investigation, this couldn’t be more wrong.

For the most part, the room contains what one might expect from a dark leaning family, what one might call the standard collection of illegal or highly frowned upon books and objects. Then he finds a secret compartment in the desk.

Once he removes a nasty flesh-eating curse, he opens it to find a collection of letters, carefully preserved. A complete record of every correspondence between Aridius Carrow and someone calling themselves Lord Voldemort. As he flips through them, eyes widening at the contents, he finds himself wishing he’d traded jobs with Val.

The opera might be boring, but at least there he wouldn’t have literally stumbled his way into what might possibly be the greatest conspiracy in modern Wizarding history.

Honestly. All he’d wanted to do was rob the guy, not learn all his dirty, treasonous secrets.

Shoving the letters back into their hiding spot, he replaces the curse and abandons the room entirely. There’s probably more to be found, but at this point, he doesn’t want to be the one finding it. 

He presses on, finishing the first two floors and making his way to the third. 

Finally, as he enters a richly yet distastefully decorated parlour, he finds what he came here for.

Locked inside an ornately carved display case is a brooch that is said to have been commissioned for the eldest daughter of Godric Gryffindor. This close, it’s breathtaking, with delicate lace patterns in the metal framing a cunningly formed lion’s face of ruby and citrine. 

Just as he begins to pry the case open after having carefully unwoven layer after layer of protective wards and curses, he feels the the bracelet around his right wrist grow warm. It’s charmed to let him communicate with Val, and as he watches, the lettering along the outside begins to change.

_ Riddle’s gone. _

Harry frowns and looks to the clock by the door. 

Not even two hours have passed. 

He transfigures a message of his own: _ Carrows? _

_ Still here. _

Now even more confused, Harry hesitates, drawing his hand back from the brooch. 

Why would Tom Riddle, who is by most (but not all) accounts almost startlingly polite, leave the Carrows at an event _ he _ invited them to? More importantly, what are the odds that Riddle disappearing on the exact night he very publicly lured the Carrows (who are apparently deeply involved in some domestic terrorism group) away from their home is a mere coincidence?

Outside the door, the floorboards creak.

Harry’s mind instantly flashes to a whole host of horrible predictions. And then it narrows down to one.

Riddle.

He’s probably here to investigate the Carrows, but Harry doubts he’d hesitate in bringing Harry down as well. After all, stealing from horrible people (who are apparently criminals too, to Harry’s complete lack of surprise) is still, technically, a crime.

In the moment before the door opens, Harry understands three things.

One, if he stays long enough to grab the brooch, there’s no way he can escape before Riddle sees him.

Two, if Riddle sees him, there’s no guarantee that he’d be able to get away, and getting caught would put a premature end to his crusade against the purebloods and their Ministry dogs.

And three, Val is going to be so fucking mad.

The door hinges creak, and Harry sprints for the window, shattering it with a wordless spell as he leaps onto the sill. Unable to help himself, he glances back one last time. Framed in the doorway, Riddle stands with his wand held aloft, his mouth pressed into a determined frown as his magic gathers for a fight.

Half-numb from panic and unwilling to stay any longer, Harry leaps into the night, and the last thing he sees before he apparates away is the look of surprise that breaks over Riddle’s admittedly handsome face.

By the time Val reads the message he sends and returns to their shared apartment in Knockturn, Harry is ready to tear his hair out as he paces the short distance across their living space.

“What happened?” Val demands as soon as she steps through the door.

“Riddle showed up,” he tells her, “I was right there. I _ had it_. And then he opened the bloody door.”

“Did he do anything to you?” She grabs him by the shoulders and holds him at arm's length so she can check for any injuries. Harry has learned by now to submit to her inspection. “What _ happened_?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.” Well, that’s not entirely true. “He saw my face.”

“What!”

“I know!” He resumes his pacing, shrugging out of Val’s hold. “The polyjuice had already worn off and I didn’t think to bring a second dose. I thought I’d be in and out within the first hour!”

Instead of yelling at him, Val groans.

“This is bad, Harry.”

“I know-”

“What if he does something to you?”

“I- What?” Harry looks over at her in surprise. “That’s what you’re worried about?”

“Of course that’s what I’m worried about!” Val grabs him by the hand and pulls him closer. “You’re like my brother, and Riddle is _ awful_.”

“He’s an auror,” Harry feels compelled to point out, more out of respect to the memory of his father, who was an auror before his death, than any actual trust in the sanctity of the profession.

“Which just gives him more power to be awful with!” 

“True,” Harry says.

“I mean, we’ve all heard the stories. You _ saw _what happened to Ophelia and their friends.”

“No one can actually prove that was Riddle.”

“Harry.” Val takes both his hands in hers. “Please. Be serious.”

“I will,” he promises. He steps closer and pulls her into a hug, wincing as her arms hold him just the wrong side of too tight. With a sigh, he says, “I need to talk to Ron and Hermione.”

“You’re going to tell them?”

“About our whole... thing?” He shakes his head with a considering frown. “No. But I need to tell them not to expect me to be around much in the next few months.”

“We should probably fall back on the whole manor plan, too,” Val says with a frown to match Harry’s.

Neither of them are happy about the idea. 

In the time since they met each other, they’ve carried out numerous raids on the auxiliary homes of Britain’s purebloods, putting a dent in their ill-gotten gains and planting leads for the aurors to follow, but in the last few months, they’d started developing a new plan. 

It started when Harry mentioned Hermione’s ongoing crusade with S.P.E.W., and then it grew from there.

After all, why focus on objects when there’s an entire class of beings who purebloods have been taking advantage of for years? Of course, not all house-elves will want to be offered a helping hand, but of the elves Harry and Val have spoken to, at least a third have expressed interest in a new home. 

As dangerous as it might be to take on such an ambitious project with Tom Riddle potentially on his case, Harry isn’t willing to wait. Not when actual lives (for all that they may not be human) are at stake.

In the weeks that follow, Harry and Val are extra careful, expecting Riddle to come after them at every turn, a whole host of aurors at his heels.

But he never does.

Which is why, just over a month later, on the eve of their first house-elf raid, Harry and Val feel comfortable enough to sneak their way into a banquet held at Greengrass Manor. 

It’s here that he has the terrible misfortune of running into Hepzibah Smith for the second time in his life. 

“Oh, Harry, darling,” she greets him, shoving a hand his way, clearly expecting him to kiss it, “How lovely to see you again.”

“Hello, Madam.” He dutifully brushes a kiss to the back of her gloved hand. “I wasn’t sure you’d remember me.”

She lets out a girlish laugh.

“Don’t be modest, dear.” She pats his cheek. “How could I possibly forget a pair of eyes like yours?”

“I’m told I get them from my mother,” Harry says. 

Before he died, his dad could barely look at him some days.

“Ah, yes. Lily Evans.” The woman sighs, not noticing the turn Harry’s thoughts have taken. “I remember that girl. She was a Muggleborn, yes?” When Harry nods, not entirely sure what to say, she laughs. “Your parents’ marriage caused quite a scandal in some circles, you know.”

“Really,” Harry says, not quite managing to sound interested. 

“Oh, yes.” The memory alone is enough to bring a gleeful light to her eyes. “To think, a line as long as the Potters, broken in such a way. It just about shattered my heart when that poor girl died, putting such a sad end to such a _ romantic _ story.”

Harry forces himself to smile through the sudden urge to dump his glass of champagne over Madam Smith’s head.

Then, because apparently the universe is out to get him these days, she looks over his shoulder and a deep blush spreads across her cheeks. Based on this reaction alone, Harry can guess who’s chosen to appear.

“Good evening, Hepzibah,” Tom Riddle says as he comes closer, “It’s wonderful to see you again. I wasn’t aware you were going to make an appearance tonight.”

Madam Smith giggles. Harry wants to gag.

“Well, I heard from an acquaintance that you were going to be the guest of honor, and I simply couldn’t miss it.”

This is news to Harry, and his gaze instinctually flits across the room to where Val is chatting up an elderly Wizengamot member. If she’d known how close Riddle apparently is with the Greengrass family, close enough to be _ honored _ by them, she probably would have chosen to stay home.

“And who is this?” Riddle asks, turning to Harry. He smiles, the expression sharklike. “I swear I’ve seen him around before.”

Harry smiles back, and if looks could kill, Riddle would be six feet under.

Hepzibah looks delighted to introduce them.

“This, my dear, is Harry Potter.” She lowers her voice. “We were just talking about what a tragedy the loss of his mother was. And to lose his father so soon after?” She looks at Harry through watery eyes. “I don’t know how you did it, my dear, but you appear to have made quite a life for yourself, what with being invited to a Greengrass banquet.”

Harry doesn’t let his confidence falter, not with Riddle so close.

“I came with a friend,” he says, neglecting to mention that the friend he came with is Val and that both of their invitations are forged. 

“Oh?” Riddle fakes innocence well. “I thought the Potters were well off. Relatively speaking, I mean.”

As if he didn’t immediately look up every scrap of information that could be found about Harry upon finishing his raid of the Carrow townhouse. 

As if he hasn’t made an (unsuccessful) attempt to corner Harry literally any time they’ve found themselves in the same place since that first encounter. Which, now that he thinks about it, has happened far too many times for Harry to brush it off as coincidence. 

Before Madam Smith can take this opportunity to gossip, another man, most likely a relative judging by their similar features, comes to steal her away.

“Alright, dearie,” she says to whatever the man whispers in her ear. She then grabs hold of one of Riddle's hands and says, “Come find me later, Tom, my darling. I simply must speak to you about a new piece I’ve acquired.”

Harry isn’t sad to see her go.

Except, now that she’s gone, he’s left alone with Tom _ fucking _ Riddle. 

“You really do look familiar,” Riddle says lightly. “Have we met?”

“Not that I can recall,” Harry says with false innocence, “It’s just that I meet _ so many _people, and it can be difficult to keep them all straight.” 

Riddle's bland smile doesn’t falter. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says, “I certainly don’t think I could forget _ you_.”

“I’m flattered,” Harry says dryly.

“You should be,” Riddle replies, stepping closer. He tilts his head in an oddly birdlike manner, his eyes narrowing. “It’s rare that anyone manages to evade me for so long.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says with a practiced laugh, “I wasn’t aware you were looking for me.”

“Weren’t you?”

Harry feels suddenly like he’s staring down a large predator. It’s disconcerting.

It’s also thrilling. 

He thinks this might just become a problem.

The next time Riddle manages to catch him is at the Ministry’s Yule Ball, which Harry is attending with a legitimate invite this time. 

For the first hour, he keeps himself out of Riddle’s grasp through a combination of careful social maneuvering and the occasional notice-me-not charm. Eventually, however, his luck runs out, and he finds himself surrounded by a veritable who’s who of Riddle’s associates, all working together to block any attempt at escape.

“Hello again,” Riddle greets him with what must be false cheer, because he doesn’t want to consider the alternative. When Harry just glares, Riddle smirks at him. “I could have sworn you’ve been trying to avoid me, Harry.”

He isn’t sure how to tell the other man not to use his first name without sounding terribly rude in front of all these people, so he doesn’t bother.

“I would never,” Harry says, except that’s exactly what he was doing and they both know it. 

For a moment, Riddle just _ looks _at him, considering, and it’s difficult not to tell him to fuck off, but Harry manages. Finally, with an almost unnoticeable gesture, he sends his sycophants away, and they’re left alone in the corner of the hall. 

“It was a fake, you know,” Riddle tells him.

The words hit like an aguamenti to the face. 

“What was?” Harry asks, though he has a feeling he knows exactly what. 

“The brooch you were about to steal from the Carrows,” Riddle elaborates. When Harry can’t help but flinch at the accusation, Riddle smiles and says, “Relax, Harry, no one is listening.”

And he’s right.

Which is rather odd, actually.

Because Tom Riddle is quite possibly the Ministry’s best auror, and the hall is full of guests who are more than likely just itching for a chance to get their claws in him. 

Why isn’t anyone listening? 

  
  
Thankfully, Harry makes it home that night with nothing more than a Tom Riddle induced headache. 

When Val asks him what’s wrong, he says, “I need you to tell me if I’m going crazy.”

“Alright,” Val says carefully, inching forward as if preparing to catch him if he collapses, “I’m listening.”

As he proceeds to explain his theory, her expression changes rapidly from concern, to disbelief, to fury as she too is convinced by the evidence he lays before her. 

“But _ why _ would Riddle want to steal a brooch from the Carrows?” is her only question once he’s done.

“I don’t know,” Harry tells her, feeling far too tired for this. 

He’s just spent the entire night playing a verbal game of cat and mouse with that infuriating mess of contradictions in the shape of a man, and all he wants to do now is sleep and spend the next week thinking of literally anything else besides Tom Riddle.

“Maybe he’s a collector,” he says, “Didn’t he go after a friend of yours, once? For that necklace he sold to Borgin?” 

“He did,” Val says, “It was the ugliest looking locket I’d ever seen. Had a big ‘S’ on the front. We thought it was just some lesser heirloom, but the lady who bought it off of Borgin is convinced it belonged to Salazar Slytherin.”

“And the brooch was supposedly Gryffindor’s daughter’s.”

Harry takes a moment to consider the implications, and for all that he’s almost certain he’s right about this, he still feels like he’s missing something. 

“So I guess we can add thievery to the list of Riddle’s crimes, then,” Val says after a beat.

Harry sighs.

“Alleged crimes,” he corrects.

“Whatever.”

Unfortunately, he does not, in fact, get to spend the whole week without thinking about Riddle because Hepzibah Smith of all people sends him an invite to a small, private gathering at her house.

“You have to go,” Val tells him.

“Riddle’s sure to be there.” Honestly, at this point he isn’t sure if that’s a deterrent or a draw. Either way, if Harry goes, there’s no way he’ll be able to evade the man.

“But the house-elves, Harry. Thinks of the house-elves!”

This is the most persuasive argument she could make, and she knows it.

“Fine,” Harry says with a heavy sigh, because he really does detest the way Madam Smith treats her elf, “I’m going. But if I end up in a cell or, Merlin forbid, a fucking grave, I want you to know that you could have stopped it.”

Val nods solemnly, though she can’t quite hide the twitching of her lips as she does her best not to laugh at him.

As bad as he may have predicted the night going, it’s nothing compared to how it actually turns out.

Case in point, Riddle somehow manages to get Harry trapped in his arms as he guides them around the parlour, accompanied by an outdated waltz and a handful of other couples.

“Why the fuck are we dancing?” Harry hisses, earning an irate glare from a woman in earshot before Riddle leads him elsewhere. 

“Because Hepzibah loves a good waltz,” Riddle tells him, tightening his grip on Harry’s hand, “and if other people dance with me first, she won’t look out of place when she asks for a dance of her own.”

“Ugh,” Harry says, shuddering at how callous the man sounds, “You really are awful, aren’t you?”

“Reading people is part of my job.”

“Is leading them on part of your job, too?” Harry asks snidely. 

Riddle tsks.

“We all have our talents,” he says with a charming grin for the benefit of a passing couple, “We might as well use them.”

“Right,” Harry grumbles. 

Speaking of using their talents, he really can’t throw stones here, can he?

“I do find it strange, however,” Riddle says, “that you’re so offended on Hepzibah’s behalf. It’s not every day that you come across a common thief with such lofty morals.”

“I- What?” Harry widens his eyes, making himself look appropriately appalled at the suggestion, “A thief? What do you mean?”

“Do cut the pretense, Harry,” Riddle says, and Harry hates the way he shivers when the other man says his name as his hand curls just a bit lower on his back, just shy of inappropriate. “We both know what you are.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says flatly, ignoring the heat of the man’s palm.

“I’m sure you don’t. Now, tell me, is it the goblin made armor? The diamond encrusted dagger?” When Harry doesn’t answer, Riddle continues, “Perhaps the manuscript said to be written by Merlin himself?” 

Harry stays stubbornly silent. As he does, his mind wanders to the one precious artifact of Madam Smith’s that Riddle _ didn’t _mention. 

“None of those?” Riddle picks up where he left off with a smirk. “Well, I suppose value is subjective. Perhaps you’re here for something of a more… _ personal _ nature?”

That suggestion, Harry can’t abide.

“I’m not here for some stupid trinket,” Harry hisses as Riddle leads him into a turn. “So please feel free to stop guessing.” 

“But you admit you’re here for something.”

Harry bristles. For a moment, he considers stomping on the man’s foot in retaliation, but that’d be sure to get them noticed, and as long as Riddle is willing to keep this confrontation out of the ears of strangers, he figures he probably shouldn’t draw any undue attention either.

“Tell me,” Riddle says with a smirk as he leans closer, until there’s no space at all between them, “and I won’t inform my superiors of my suspicions.”

Harry’s head snaps up to look the man in the eye. He’s known for ages now that Tom Riddle isn’t exactly what he appears, but to be manipulated so blatantly is still a shock.

“I’m here for her house-elf,” Harry tells him, not having to think over it long. As much as he hates to give the other man what he wants, he isn’t willing to risk Riddle revealing him.

“Hokey?” Riddle asks with a sneer, “What could you possibly want with that old thing?”

“First of all,” Harry says sharply, “Hokey may not be human, but she is a _ person_, not a thing. And I’m here because I’ve seen the way Smith treats her. It’s not right. I’m going to stop it.”

“So you _ do _have a cause,” Riddle says. As if it’s that simple. “I had wondered.”

Harry snorts rudely.

“I admire that, you know,” Riddle continues, “There are too many witches and wizards who simply drift through life, content to let the world move around them, doing nothing to move it in turn.”

“Hang on,” Harry says, incredulous, “Is this a recruitment pitch?” 

“I suppose,” Riddle drawls, looking far too amused for Harry’s peace of mind, “Of a sort.”

“I could never be an auror.” Not now. Not after all he’s done. Not when there’s so much left to do.

“Well, then, it’s a good thing I’m not offering you a place with the aurors.”

Before Harry can force Riddle to explain himself, the song ends, and the other man releases him. Just as he’s deciding whether it’d be worth it or not to ask for another dance, Madam Smith swoops in as Riddle predicted, and Harry is left to join those seated around the edges of the room.

In the end, he never does get the chance to make Riddle explain.

Instead, he gets something better.

Shortly after the latest song ends, he spies Madam Smith leading Riddle into an adjoining room. What really catches his attention, however, is the way the other man is utterly unable to hide his excitement for whatever he’s about to be shown. After glancing around to make sure no one is paying him any mind, he casts a disillusionment charm and follows.

When he finally catches up, he sees Riddle peering down at a locket Harry has only ever heard about, a look of dark, desperate greed on his face.

As a plan begins forming in his mind, Harry slips back into the parlour, though he leaves the charm on.

He has an elf to find.

“Hey, Val? How do you feel about stealing Slytherin’s locket from Hepzibah Smith?”

“Does Riddle want it?”

“Yes.”

“I’m in.”

This time, Harry makes certain that Riddle won’t be able to catch him off guard.

When the perimeter spell he’d set before leaving goes off, three days after the gathering at Madam Smith’s place, Harry calls for Hokey.

“Harry Potter has need of Hokey?” the elderly elf asks.

“I do,” Harry tells her, “There’s someone in your home who doesn’t belong. I’d like to help you be rid of them.”

Hokey takes a moment to consider. Then, with a snap of her gnarled fingers, she and Harry disappear. Shortly after, Hokey delivers him to the same room he caught Madam Smith and Riddle sneaking off to during her party.

For all that an elf’s mode of transportation is much quieter than apparition, the pop of displaced air is still audible. As such, Riddle, who stands before the locket’s display case, freezes as soon as they arrive.

“Thank you, Hokey,” Harry says softly, “That will be all.”

As soon as Hokey disappears, Riddle turns to face him.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says flatly, with no attempt at pretense.

“Neither should you,” Harry replies.

Riddle’s eyes narrow.

“You do realize,” he says, “that there’s no denying your presence here this time. I’ve well and truly seen you, not just caught a blurred glimpse as you threw yourself out a window.”

“Are you saying you’re going to turn me in?” Harry asks with a false pout.

“I’m saying I’m considering it.”

The worst part is, Harry thinks, he can’t actually tell if he means it.

Actually, scratch that. 

The worst part is, either way, Harry is enjoying himself. Immensely.

“You’re here, too,” Harry points out. He steps closer. “How will you explain that?”

“Oh, Harry, Hepzibah and I are _ friends_. Why wouldn’t I come to visit a friend?” His lips twist into a smirk. “Especially one in such a _ poor _ condition.”

Harry feels his blood run cold.

“What do you mean? What have you done to her?”

“I?” Riddle presses a hand to his chest, feigning offense. “_I_ have done _nothing_.”

Harry decides to give up on that particular line of questioning. Whatever the other man did or didn’t do will come out eventually. It always does.

“You’re here to steal Slytherin’s locket,” Harry says.

“Am I?” When Harry doesn’t respond, he tsks. “Let’s say I am. For curiosity’s sake, of course. What, exactly_, _ does that have to do with _ you_?”

“Well, you see, I’m here to steal it, too.”

Riddle’s politely curious expression gives way to rage. Predictably, he lashes out, though rather than any auror grade spells, he strikes first with a stunner. Harry ducks into a roll, coming up behind the cover of a large bookcase. 

He knows he can’t beat Riddle in a fair fight, but this? Whatever this is? 

This isn’t about playing fair.

Gripping one of the vials from his belt, Harry waits for Riddle to move again, listening to the sound of his footsteps as he moves through the room. Once he’s close enough, Harry lobs the vial his way, counting on the shield Riddle casts to break the bottle and set its contents aflame as it comes into contact with the air. Unlike a fire spell, these flames are largely just for show. But Riddle doesn’t know that, and a distraction is all he needs.

Taking this as his chance, Harry darts for the case holding the locket. 

But he underestimated how quickly Riddle can recover.

The man casts a tripping jinx with frustrating accuracy, and Harry curses as he hits the floor. He doesn’t stay down for long. Before Riddle can bind him, he pushes to his feet and sends a jet of water that soaks Riddle’s legs where his shield fails to cover them. 

With a grin, Harry casts a freezing charm. 

Like Riddle, Harry is casting more to annoy and delay than truly injure, and upon successfully setting a flock of birds on the other man, a spell he joyfully learned from Hermione in his sixth year, Harry finally succeeds in getting his hands on the locket. 

But he doesn’t have long to celebrate.

Seemingly forgoing casting altogether, Riddle barrels into him, sending them crashing to the floor. In the ensuing scuffle, Harry soon finds himself flat on his back, looking up at Riddle, who holds his wrists to the floor with a steely grip.

“You’re infuriating,” Riddle informs him.

Harry laughs. 

“Yeah? What‘re you gonna do about it?” he asks.

“Well,” Riddle says with a mean grin, “I seem to have you at my mercy. I suppose I could do anything.”

He shifts so his thigh is pressed firmly against Harry’s crotch, and Harry lets out an involuntary gasp, his face flushing.

“Not fair,” he protests.

“It’s a good thing I’m not trying to be,” Riddle says darkly.

Grasping desperately for a distraction from the way Riddle’s body moves above his own, Harry says, “I thought you were supposed to be the good guy.”

“Did you really?” He leans down and presses an open mouthed kiss to the pulse point of Harry’s neck. Harry is deeply embarrassed by the noise he makes in response. “I suppose that was your first mistake.”

“What was the second?” Harry asks breathlessly.

“Getting caught.” This time, when Riddle leans down, he bites, and Harry’s grip on the locket’s chain falters just enough for Riddle to tear it from his grasp. “Getting _ distracted_.”

Harry lets out a breathless laugh. 

“So what now, Riddle?” he asks, “Now that I’m at your mercy, what are you going to do?”

“Well, seeing as I _ am _an auror, it’s my duty to bring you in.”

“But?”

“But, because I like you.” He falters when Harry arches up against him, and Harry snickers. Riddle presses harder on his wrists in retaliation, making him wince. “Because I _ like you_, I’m sure we could come to some sort of… arrangement.”

Harry sighs and lets his body lie flat against the floor.

It really is a tempting offer.

But even more tempting is the locket and the promise of the even better chase that would no doubt ensue if he were to succeed in taking it.

Which means there’s only one thing to do.

“Before we begin,” Harry says, “would you like to hear _ your _ first mistake?”

Riddle smirks, content to humor him now that he has the upper hand.

“Enlighten me.”

“You’re overconfident,” Harry says, 

“I’ve heard that one before,” Riddle says with a proud look, “What was my second?”

“You forgot about Hokey.”

At the sound of her name, the old house-elf appears with a quiet pop, frying pan in hand, and Harry has the immense pleasure of watching Riddle’s face go slack in confusion, then surprise, then unconsciousness as the elf whacks him across the back of the head.

“Well done, Hokey,” Harry praises her as he shoves Riddle’s weight off of him and plucks the locket from his weak grasp. 

The elf is gripping the pan’s handle nervously.

“Will you be taking the locket with you?” Hokey asks. 

“I want to,” Harry says, deciding honesty is probably the best policy here, considering the frying pan still held in Hokey’s hands. “But you could stop me. Will you?”

Hokey’s gaze darts toward Riddle.

“The locket is making Mister Riddle come to visit,” she says. She doesn’t take her eyes off his prone form. “Mister Riddle is making Hokey _ nervous _ when he comes to visit, and he is so mean to always be getting Mistress’s hopes up.”

That said, she pops away, and Harry thinks that’s probably as close to permission as he’s going to get.

When Riddle finally comes to, Harry is seated beside the open window, twirling the locket on its chain.

“So, about that arrangement,” he says, a wide grin stretching across his face as Riddle turns his furious gaze Harry’s way, “Maybe next time we can work something out.”

Without waiting for a reply, he swings his legs over the sill and drops down into the garden below, laughing when he hears the faint sound of Riddle cursing up a storm above him.

Riddle is _ sure _ to come after him now.

Harry can’t wait.


End file.
